So I'm an Axe Murderer
by sakurasencha
Summary: Johanna Mason: Axe Murderer. Not exactly the type of girl to star in her own romance. But Gale Hawthorne has other ideas. A comedy of recovery, friendship, self-discovery – and a little bit of love.
1. The First Date

_Welcome to my Johale crack fic. Well, it won't be quite a cracky as some of my other stuff but it's def a comedy piece so characters will be exaggerated and used to comedic effect. Overall it's mostly a Johanna character piece that charts her progression post Mockingjay and how she deals with both the after effects of her experiences and her feelings of self worth. It's also an AU where everyone lives, so there's that. The title is a riff off of the nineties classic, "So I married an Axe Murder."_

 _This piece was entered into the Caesar's Palace forums Unsexy Dialogue contest._

 _Many thanks to foojooles for the beta, reining me in, and helping spot the trouble areas._

* * *

 **The First Date**

On the day the Hunger Games ended, as the Capitol crumbled into the hands of the rebellion, a lone figure trudged up a neglected mountain trail.

No more than a drab dot from an aerial view, zoomed in the hiker was scrawny, head crowned with a close-cropped fuzz of hair. Drowning in baggy, neutral clothing and devoid of any distinguishing features, by looks alone the panting, perspiring climber could have been just about anyone – but there was no mistaking the stream of expletives:

 _Huff, puff._ "Damn it, Snow!" _Huff, puff._ "Damn it, Katniss!"

It went on in this vein for two hours – the average time required to accomplish the harrowing trek up to the nearest lookout point of the mountain range that encircled the ravaged Capitol like anthills around a carcass. But she considered it worth every bead of sweat. After all, the view was much better from up here, where she could witness the full panorama of pandemonium, take in the sweeping chaos of the decimation in all its massive proportions: scattering citizens painted with blood and terror; buildings once tall and unbreachable now disintegrated to rubble, their steel girders propped in the air like so many broken limbs. Flames sprouted across the city, unfolding themselves into blooms of fire, petals of ash that fell with the harshness of a blizzard.

Johanna Mason gave a deep and contented sigh. "I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life."

"So. You like destruction?"

She leapt to a fighting stance, hand darting to her side, grasping for the handle of a hatchet that wasn't there. She hadn't noticed anyone creeping up the trail after her, but there he was, toes lining the rim of the perch, eyes plastered to the scene far below them, a strong and upright stance that held a faint degree of menace, like a thunder god about to zing down a lightning bolt.

Johanna relaxed. _It's just the reject_. "Death, mostly," she replied with a shrug. "But destruction's nice, too."

The wind had battered his cheeks to a pinkish tint that stood out against his swarthy skin. With a rather becoming glow, an evil relish twinkling in his eyes, Gale Hawthorne turned towards her and smiled.

That was how it began.

* * *

"So I said no – _of course_."

Katniss blinked once. "Uh-huh."

"I mean – does he really think I want your cast-offs? That because you don't want to date his pathetic face I'll be happy to snatch him up at half price?"

"Uh-huh."

"Do I look like the type that wants your sloppy seconds?"

"Uh-huh."

"So I told him he could take his offer for dinner, slice it into a thousand pieces, and feed it to the swines!"

"Uh-huh."

Johanna folded her bony arms. The Mockingjay, who had reverted from the skintight leather costumes back to the customary grey and brown cottons of District life, was seated opposite Johanna in a floral wing chair. They faced a floor to ceiling window through which Katniss mildly stared into the middle distance, a fifty-fifty chance – and those were generous odds – that she had heard a single word of the tirade.

"And then I took my axe and chopped him in half!"

"Uh-huh."

"Katniss!" Johanna leaned over and swatted her on the shoulder. "Are you even _listening_?"

"Yes." Katniss rubbed the sore spot, but her expression didn't ruffle. She raised one shoulder in approximation of annoyance, and probably a hundred other volatile feelings. Johanna rolled her eyes. You just never knew what was bubbling under the surface with that girl. _One minute she's so boring she could be technically classified as deceased, the next she's trying to syringe you to death._ But then she surprised Johanna by looking her straight in the eyes and saying in a terse, low voice, "You don't want to date Gale. I get it, Johanna. Believe me, _I get it_."

Mollified, Johanna relaxed her glower. Katniss reclaimed her vigil of the foliage.

The price for friendship with the revered Mockingjay being long stretches of untouchable silence, Johanna amused herself by admiring the intricate crown moulding, counting the number of embossed blossoms in the ceiling. She, Katniss, and the other surviving Victors, along with key figures in the rebellion, had taken up residence in the former President's palace to await the trials, sentencings, and the hotly anticipated executions.

Johanna, naturally, had lobbied for decapitation. "Why do you need to hire an executioner, I'll do them all for free!" But the majority rule from thirteen had carried the day: An arrow through the heart for Snow, and the gallows for everyone else.

The two currently sat lounging in Katniss' room, apartment of the former Vice President of Panem whose name nobody bothered to learn before the rebellion and no one would bother to learn even after her limp body swung from the round end of a noose, her life and contributions memorialized forever in an epitaph that would most likely read: "Here lies the last Vice President of Panem."

Johanna pursed her lips. _I can relate to that_. She threw a hostile glance to Katniss. "For someone who was your best friend," she clipped, "you don't seem to have a high opinion of Gale."

"People change."

"Regimes change. Ideally with blood and fire and anguish. But people?" She gave a trilling laugh. "People don't budge, even at knife point – and I should _know_."

"Fine. Let's just say you're right, that Gale's the same Gale he's always been. But recently I've learned some things about him that make it impossible for me to be with him, or even recommend him to others." She blinked. "Satisfied?"

Johanna's sharp eyes flicked to her lap. Her wiry body shifted in her chair. Her limbs were antsy, the same sensation as when too many pine needles accumulated in her undergarments while out on an overnight logging detail. She finally looked up with a composed smile. "Alright," she said airily, dandelions in the wind. "Then we're agreed. Neither of us will date him."

"I was never gonna date –"

" _Neither_ of us will date him."

"Fine." Katniss shrugged. "Whatever."

She smirked as though she'd just won a bet, although wondered if she could truly define "not dating Gale" as a definite prize. Regardless, Katniss evidently couldn't care less, her features placid as blue skies after a storm. Large flowery eyes stared with gag-worthy pathos out the window – at pegasus topiaries and ivory rose bushes – her body motionless as a statue. And Johanna had little doubt that stone monuments of Katniss would soon be littered across every fountain, garden, and public park in Panem. Because even while sitting down and doing absolutely nothing, as she was right at this moment, the Mockingjay exuded a magnetic presence, cast a long and inescapable shadow under which anyone who fell would be forced to wallow in a pool of comparative mediocrity.

In fact, the cloud of people surrounding Katniss Everdeen seemed individually defined by their relationship with her, and therefore Johanna considered it only a matter of time until her own gravestone would proudly display:

 _Johanna Mason: someone who once knew the Mockingjay_

 _(and tried to kill her)_

Listless legs drove her to her feet, propelled her to the dresser, a nine-drawer mahogany number boasting ornate carvings of teenagers in various stages of dismemberment (Johanna was gratified to note that one of her kills had made the exclusive collection), that dominated the opposite wall. _As if I even care_. Kneeling over an open drawer, Johanna fished her hand inside, scoffed at a prosaic cardigan, and tossed it scornfully over her shoulder. _And I'll tell anyone with the stupidity to ask that I don't give a tracker jacker's pointy ass over what people etch onto a hunk of granite pushed over my rotting corpse._ Digging deeper into the pile of cashmere, she palliated the subtle, traitorous pangs – the ones that pricked the cordoned section of her heart, the dwelling place of her father's beard and her sister's baby blanket – by enumerating the many practical advantages, in an era of insurgency and war, to have nobody left to care for (or to care for her). _Who buys this many cardigans, anyway?_

Johanna laid them all aside. Heavy, languid limbs sank onto the carpet. She kneeled there, turned her head and gazed with bone dry eyes out the window. At hedges and rose bushes, and something far beyond these – a gathering place of loss.

It reached from the garden and through the window, through the decades of her life – from timbre yards to killing arenas to Capitol sub basements. Reached and held her captive by its anesthetizing beauty: pristine as an uncharted forest, undisturbed and reserved only for her.

* * *

Katniss, who had slipped from desolate contemplation into a rather refreshing doze, sprung awake at a jolting shake to her chair.

"Katniss!" Johanna barked. "Are you awake?"

"Johanna! What are you –?"

Johanna silenced her by sitting down in her lap. "You know, brainless, I'm starting to think I should feel insulted."

Katniss squirmed into the back of her chair as if hoping it would eat her. "What are you talking about?"

"Gale." She waved a hand through the air, as if it were obvious. "Obviously!"

"I think Gale is rarely ever the obvious choice," she said, sucking in her cheeks, which were by the second taking on the distinct hue of radishes.

"Why is it that this guy who I barely know, who I've spent all of five minutes in conversation, suddenly has the gall to ask me out on a date right after you dump him?" She ran a self-conscience hand over her peach fuzz scalp. "I mean, why would he do that? Was it some kind of joke?" Fire surged to her face. "If he's messing with me, then that pretty face is about to get a lot uglier."

"I doubt it. Gale doesn't do jokes. Or humor."

Johanna rose, to the visible relief of Katniss, with a feline grace and a pair of arched eyebrows. "Sounds kind of like you," she said, reeking with disdain as she moved to the bed and stretched her thin, pale form across silky sheets.

Katniss said nothing. She squinted at Johanna over the back of her wing chair. Prone to miss things that were right in front of her face, especially if it in any way concerned other human beings, Katniss nonetheless had spent a lot of unhappy times with Johanna, even more with Gale, and had silently come to a few startling deductions. "You didn't seem so opposed to him back in Thirteen."

"What are you talking about?"

"Gale, obviously." Johanna snorted. Katniss raised an eyebrow and countered: " _'Are you, gorgeous?'_ – ring any bells?"

"Oh, that!" Johanna dismissed the accusation with a laugh. "That's when I thought he was your boyfriend."

"And you find other people's boyfriends more appealing than someone that's available?"

"Who doesn't? I can't count the number of times I tried to pry Finnick off of Annie, but they're like barnacles, those two."

"Right." Katniss stood and walked over to the bed, subsided gently upon the edge. "And I guess back in Thirteen Gale seemed more like helpless prey than a predator."

Johanna rolled over onto her stomach, eyes narrowed. "What are you getting at, Everdeen?"

"Nothing. But I should warn you, Johanna – Gale's persistent."

"Tell me about it. He's already called me three times! I think I'd kill myself if I were that desperate."

"The thing with Gale…sometimes he needs to be _shown_ that something won't work."

"So what are you saying? That I should…." She gently swayed her head, pondering the options. "Beat him senseless?"

Katniss' lips became a thin line. "Maybe not quite that. Maybe just go out with him. And then, when it's a total disaster…."

Johanna nodded gamely. "I can do disaster."

"I know you can. And then, when it's a total disaster, he'll back off." Katniss shrugged. "Like reverse psychology, or something."

Johanna frowned, suspicious. "What the hell is that?"

"Just go out with him."

Johanna hopped off the bed. "What can I say? My idiot head doctor keeps telling me I need to 'move forward' with my life, whatever the hell that means. And one doesn't contradict the Mockingjay." With a farewell wink she bounded out the door.

* * *

The two set out for Gale's room, who had been assigned the suite of the former Secretary of Intelligence and Torture.

"He told me he picked it himself," Katniss explained with a faint look of disgust.

"Really?" Johanna appeared impressed. "Despite his complete idiocy, you can't fault the guy for his taste."

Together they strode down the long corridor that led to the palace's east wing, the walls on either side decked with an unending line of portraits, an homage to all the Capitol's past and present leaders. The haughty smiles of former presidents and the calculating gazes of past gamemakers bore unnervingly down on Johanna, who had trouble focusing on the task at hand while envisioning each of their grotesque hairstyles fraying and knotting as they rolled around on freshly decapitated heads. _They'd make a great game of lawn bowling._ She felt a sudden stab of disappointment that most of them were already dead.

Katniss abruptly stopped and pointed to an unmarked door. "That's Gale's room." Then, with a succinct turn of a heel, her boots click-clacked from whence they came.

"Hey!" Johanna called, hip thrust out and both arms in the air. "Why are you running off?" She folded her arms. "Don't tell me you have an appointment with some pottery that's begging to be stared at?"

A brown braid flicked as Katniss called over her shoulder, legs hurrying her away. "No," she called. "I'm just not really in a Gale mood. But don't let that stop you from having fun." And her braid swished again as she vanished around a corner.

Johanna fumed. _Let her leave._ She didn't mind. She was Johanna Mason, victor of the Seventy-first Hunger Games, and she didn't need an escort to ask some random loser out on a date. Sure, she might look like the spokesperson for starvation diets, thin as a wire, her scarred, gaunt face more appropriate for a mausoleum than a restaurant. And sure, the last dregs of her empathy might have been zapped away by buckets of unrelenting water and five hundred well placed volts, an unabating heat that melted her from the inside out, left her a hollow and brittle shell, liable to shatter at the smallest provocation, or even none at all.

But didn't she still have a lot to offer? With small, halting steps, Johanna lapsed the remaining distance to the door. Just yesterday she had thrown an axe hard enough to split a nude miniature of Finnick Odair – _contrapposto_ – that stood as the centerpiece of the palace's atrium clean in half, which had to count for something.

She took a deep breath and knocked.

She knocked again.

Of course he had the audacity to let her knock three times before opening the door with a slow creak.

A dark head emerged. "Hey." And someone had better strap her down, the way his eyes roved up and down and up again, like she was some kind of naked statue.

"Eyes up here, Hawthorne, unless you want them gouged out." She hurled a glare through slitted eyes, a slow and dangerous nod of her head. "I thought I had warned you off for good back on that mountain top. But you truly must be either a natural born idiot, or learned the skill through inhaling coal dust instead of oxygen twelve hours a day."

Gale swayed his head from side to side. "A little of both?"

Johanna brought her hands together. She cracked a knuckle. "Fine, you want to do this? Ground rules, non-negotiable: Absolutely no touching, and as for kissing – ha! I will cut. Your. Tongue out." _Crack._

"I'm not much for rules." He cocked his head. "But you make a pretty convincing argument. Is there some kind of contract I need to sign? Should I get a pen?"

"I'm not much for contracts." She flicked her eyes to her fingernails (fully regrown after the Capitol's torture masters had had their way with them) and examined them with indifference. "I prefer alternative guarantees: word is my bond, always make good on my threats – that sort of thing."

"Gotcha."

"So?" Johanna stuck out her chin. "You still interested?" She held her breath.

He smiled. "I'll drop by your room at eight tonight." And his parting smirk disappeared behind the door.

* * *

She had raided every unlocked room in the palace, snagging anything that shined, shimmered, or sheened, and had carried the load in both arms to her walk in closet, the size of which rivaled her entire house back in Seven.

The only thing visible within the mass of silks and polyesters were two wide, brown eyes, a pinky finger, and her right foot. "Can you guys smell it?" came muffled from a layer of ruched taffeta. "The scent of fashion!"

Finnick leaned over and took a sniff. "It smells like moth balls. And really, Johanna, how many clothes does one person need?"

"It's not about necessity." Johanna swam to the top of the pile. She shot to her feet, brushed a lacy pink thong off her shoulder as she wound up for the harangue: "Fashion is a way of expressing yourself. Our bodies are like these blank canvases, an outside surface that reflects the inward man, and with every layer…." Although endowed with an apathy that rivaled brick walls, Johanna was nonetheless liable to burst into paroxysms at anything wardrobe related. Her eyes blazed with each fevered word she spat out to the ever-glazing eyeballs of the recently married Odairs. "Fabric, cut, color, _texture_ – it's a three dimensional art form."

In due time her audience gradually abandoned any pretense of attending the lecture, and resumed their base operational mode of gazing rapturously into each other's eyes.

Johanna threw a shoe at Finnick's head – "You know what, just get out of here! Both of you!" – and shuffled them without protest out of the closet.

She exhaled a calming breath, and recommenced her exploration of the clothes pile. A red blouse bedazzled in sequins. _No._ A long black gown hung low in the back. _Hideous._ A ruffled green tube top paired with ribbed, tight leather pants in bark brown. _I guess my stylist wasn't executed after all._ Every ensemble she assembled seemed like it wouldn't even fit, let alone enhance her pitiful appearance.

She kicked the top of the pile. A spray of clothes smattered the full length mirror. Alone, confronted with her head to toe image, she scrutinized her face and body with a sinking frown. She ran a finger across her scarred skin, lightly grazed the hair sprouting in uneven patches. With her straight spine and inflexibly erect posture, one might have surmised that her emaciated frame once walked with dignity and strength. But those were past artifacts, light years away. Nothing of her former glories remained in her reflection, nothing left but dull brown eyes to stare back at her, twin stars long extinguished, without hope of rekindling.

Happy laughter tinkled from outside the closet door – the nauseating sounds of love. Johanna quelled a groan. Finnick and Annie, to her dismay, had been assigned the suite adjoining hers, their two rooms separated by nothing but a panel door and paper thin walls. With the Odairs still in their honeymoon stage, it made for uncomfortable nights, mornings, and most afternoons. But Johanna admitted to some benefits; a pair of friends routinely on hand could prove useful, and after much consideration, Johanna opted for a style that had never before failed her, gave herself a quick once over in the mirror, and exited the closet to seek her friends' approval.

"What do you think, Finnick? Too racy for a first date?"

Finnick's mouth parted. "Johanna, you're….naked."

"Yeah, you're probably right – too much too soon." She clapped twice. "Annie! Help me find a dress!"

Annie, lounging on Finnick who in turn lay lounging on a chaise, expelled a bell-like laugh. "I don't think I can help you. I'm not an expert on clothes. I'm not even used to wearing clothes."

Johanna looked at her askance. "So, what? Do you just go around half naked like some kind of pampered puppy?"

Annie shrugged. "Only on hot days."

"Huh." She flicked her eyes to Finnick. "And here I thought prancing around like a newborn fairy was just your schtick, golden boy."

"No. As a society, we tend not to wear a lot of clothes in District Four."

"It's not really a thing in District Four," Annie agreed.

"It's not a thing?" Johanna gaped. "Wearing clothes is not... _a thing_."

"No."

"No!"

Johanna walked back into the closet without a word, and slipped a purple mini dress over her head. "I need new friends."

* * *

Katniss had forewarned Johanna that punctuality was possibly Gale's only virtue. And true to her prediction, at eight o'clock on the dot an aggressive knock sounded at her door. Johanna armored her features, her face promising wrath and carnage as she opened the door.

Gale grinned like the cat that got the cream. He appraised her from head to toe. "Wow, you look…"

She stiffened. "What?"

"Hot. Really hot. I mean, that dress?" His smile slipped to a punch-inducing smirk. "You took some time out for little old me."

Fist half-cocked, Johanna forced her arm to her side and her fingers to relax. She slung a black purse over her shoulder. "Keep up that kind of talk, and I will murder you in your sleep."

"Does this mean you're gonna sleep with me?"

She brushed past him on her way out the door, muttered, "No wonder she picked Peeta," under her breath.

Gale held his hand over his heart as he followed her down the hall. "I think I'm falling in love already!"

* * *

Heaps of rubble littered the streets. Ash and dust still clung to the air, peppering the couple as they strolled through the Capitol proper. Brushing the debris off her bare shoulder, Johanna was disappointed to note that most of the infernos had already been put out. A few stubborn spirals of smoke billowed in the distance, and she blessed them with a smile and silent encouragement. _Burn, baby, burn._

A new vivacity laced her movements. "So where are you taking me, Hawthorne?" Acrid smoke filled her lungs, a ruined city lay at her feet, and she had to confess to the invigorating effect on her mood, as well as her expectations. "I find it hard to believe anyone could live in this wreck, let alone stay open for business."

"A few of the Capitol rebels are restaurateurs – if you can believe it – and a large reason the invasion was so successful. They were consigned to supply rations to the influx of Peacekeepers defending the city, and knocked at least a quarter of them out by poisoning their food."

Johanna raised an eyebrow. "One of your brilliant ideas?"

Gale looked to his feet. He looked to the sky. "I can't take full credit for it." He adjusted the shoulders of his jacket. "It was a roundtable decision."

"Yeah, right." She scoffed, rolled her eyes. "Those marshmallows at the top would never come up with poison. They'd rather flash fancy commercials or give motivational speeches, hope that if they sit underground and play dead for seven decades the Capitol might toss them a scrap of freedom like a doggy bone." She met his eyes. "You get results, Gale. And you don't need to be humble with me. I think it was a fantastic idea – killing them with their own excess." She barked a laugh. "I would have loved be there, watching them writhing on the floor, clutching their overstuffed bellies."

"I could hook you up with some footage, if you want?"

"Dinner _and_ a movie? You sure know how to treat a girl, Hawthorne."

"I try." He maneuvered them across the street, to a half-standing building decorated with a colonnaded facade, no doubt once a premiere example of Capitolite sophistication, and now graffitied over with – _the odds are in our favor now, bitches!_ "One of our allies owns this place," Gale said. "He kept it open so the rebel forces could have a place to unwind while we sort everything out. Reservations are at a premium, but they were willing to squeeze us in."

"You mean squeeze _you_ in." A hostess with magenta curls ushered them to a small, inconspicuous table set in a dark corner. With the power grid still unstable, the only sources of light were a roaring fire crackling in a nearby hearth, and moonlight that sparkled onto a blood red tablecloth through a gaping hole in the roof. "If I'd known we were dining alfresco I would have snagged a cardigan."

"And deprived me of the view?"

A waiter materialized, ironically a former avox. He handed her a menu, which Johanna perused for five seconds before chucking it onto the table. "That thing is indecipherable!" All luxurious sauces and unpronounceable titles, a list of fifteen obscure ingredients from parts of the world she had no interest in sampling. "I just want some grilled meat, is that so much to ask?"

The waiter bowed. He brandished a white board and marker out of thin air, and began scribbling furiously. _Of course, Ms. Mason. And which kind of animal product would you prefer? We boast a large variety of meats and poultry, from beef to pork to venison to turkey –_

"All of them." The waiter lobbed her a beleaguered look. "I'm in the Capitol," she said with a shrug. "I may as well eat like it."

"I'll have the same," said Gale with a smile, and handed the waiter his menu. "And a bottle of wine, please."

The waiter scurried off. Alone, close quartered for the first time with the ex boyfriend of the legendary Mockingjay, Johanna used the opportunity to study Gale in the intermingling light – fire and moon, gold and silver. The contrasting glows seemed to burnish his skin to a sparkling bronze. He was handsome, no denying it, strong features, a dependable jaw, his face a mask of cool equanimity.

She leaned back in her chair with a slow curving smile. "So what's the deal between you and Katniss?"

The facade slipped. "What?" For the first time she'd known him he looked like an eighteen year old boy.

"You two were as cozy as conjoined twins back in Thirteen. So why did she up and pick Peeta in the final hour?"

Gale frowned. He turned his eyes to his elaborately folded napkin, picked it up and spread it laboriously over his lap. "Did she?"

"Well she sure as hell didn't pick _you_." This sparked several seconds of cackling that was only waylaid by the return of the waiter, a bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. "Leave the bottle," Johanna ordered. "And you can take my glass away, I won't be needing it." She took a long swig.

Johanna relinquished the bottle to Gale and he poured himself a glass. He stared at the jewel red liquid, swirling the glass in his hand. "The truth is," he finally said, "Katniss had some...issues over one of the weapons I developed with Beetee." He took a sip. "She felt it went beyond the proper boundaries of polite warfare."

Johanna wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Wait, what weapon?" Her eyes narrowed. "Are you talking about the double explosion outside the palace?"

"That's the one."

Johanna snorted. "Why? It's what won us the damn war!"

"I know, right?"

"So Miss Perfect Purity Princess is upset that you blew up a few kids?" She shook her head in disbelief. "As if the Capitol hasn't been exploiting the deaths of children for _decades_."

"That's exactly what I told her. But according to Katniss…." He held out his palms. "My hands are dirty."

"So are mine." She took another swig. "And so are hers. So where does she get off judging anyone when she's killed just as many people as you or me. Probably more!"

The topic was dropped at the approach of their waiter, both tempers assauged by the sight of seven deftly balanced trays.

Forgoing her knife and fork, Johanna reached for the nearest platter, lifted a sizzling steak to her mouth and sank in her teeth. "Seven plates," mused Johanna between chews. "Good number."

"Your home District, right?"

"Sure." She swallowed. "As much a home as any one of us can have in this hellish nation."

Gale began cutting into his squab. "So tell me about District Seven."

Fingers of heat traced up her neck and caressed her face. Johanna reached for the bottle. What was there to tell?Oh, she could rattle a few things off, maybe. About the ancient firs, perhaps. And the acres and acres of mighty trunks that pierced the clouds, dense thickets spliced with cool and sprinting waters. Mountains bedecked with pines, festooned with limpid lakes, and how she would gaze at those crystal surfaces for hours, hoping they could represent even a small part of her soul.

She said: "I heard a statistic once. Apparently, we had the highest on the job fatality rate in all of Panem. Yeah, you guys think you had it bad in Twelve, in the mines? Try getting diced by flying hatches or the occasional accident at the wood chipper. That's Seven!" She pointed both thumbs at herself. "That's my home."

"Do you ever want to go back there?"

"What did I just tell you?" She paused for another bite. "It's nothing to me. Nothing but dead trees and bad memories."

"There's a lot of those." He laughed. "The memories I mean, not the trees. And everyone's got them." He grew quiet, his face pensive. His eyes strayed from her face, lingered at an obscure spot over her shoulder, on what she could only assume was an assortment of his own unique horrors. He dispelled the moment with a shake of his head. "That's why I wanted to take you _here_." He gestured to the dilapidated walls, the crumbling roof. "Candlelight, good food, good company. I'm tired of making more bad memories. I'm tired of grasping at a past that's gone. I want to move forward."

Johanna chewed slowly. She had to admit his eagerness was cute, even if he was a total failure at execution. Over a mouthful she said, "You'd make a good shrink. 'Moving forward' – that's all my idiot doctor ever talks about."

"I think he's right. And I was thinking – and I hope saying it out loud won't make you murder me in my sleep – that I'd like to make some new memories, some better memories, with you."

Johanna's fork froze halfway to her mouth. "What?" It dropped to her plate with a clatter. "I've done nothing but insult you and act like a complete boor." She held up her greasy hands. "Literally, I'm eating like a boar!"

Gale shrugged. "So? _Johanna_ –" he said the word like he was reminding her of her own name – "You're pretty and feisty and you make me laugh – you make everyone laugh. I figure you can eat with manners when you want to – same goes for being a pleasant human being. So if you think you can scare me off with a few insults and some belching, forget it." He looked down at his plate. "If you're not interested, that's fine. Just say the word." He looked up again. "But I think we could work, in an odd way. What do you think?"

And when he smiled he wasn't calculating the odds. No games, no deception. Just a simple honesty, a simple entreaty that called for a simple yes or no. _This idiot would have never survived the arena._

That was why she said yes to a second.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading :)_


	2. The First Kiss

_I know this chapter is long over due and I'm sorry for the wait. I don't really have an excuse except to say that I just got sidetracked writing other stuff! Anyway, for anyone still interested in this story, hope you enjoy._

 _Many MANY thanks to the ineffable foojules who betad this monster with a fine tooth comb and made it somewhat readable._

* * *

 **The First Kiss**

Ankles neatly crossed and mug of coffee in hand, Dr. Varga sat prim as a terrace garden, blue eyes wide and alive, wispy blonde hair curling at her shoulders. "Good morning, Ms. Mason!" Just as every morning before, she greeted her patient with an alarm clock kind of exuberance, and a smile so bright it rivaled the fluorescent bulbs in the Capitol's torture chambers.

 _Appropriate_ , Johanna mused, when every second with the doctor was akin to being thrown back on the rack. _I can't be the only one that notices therapy seems a hell of a lot like interrogation._ "It's never a good morning when I have to drag my ass into your office first thing." She strode into the room and flopped belly first onto the couch. Her breath fogged against the cracked vinyl. "You know, letting patients lie down and sleep while you blabber on is about the only good thing you therapists have come up with."

"We believe that a cozy, non-regulatory environment is conducive to creating an atmosphere of openness and healing." She oozed her words rather than spoke them. Johanna could all but smell the sweet, sticky stream, and wrinkled her nose. "Now, shall we get started?"

Too tired for her usual look of menace, she turned onto her side and watched with yawning eyes as Dr. Varga blew over the rim of her steaming mug. "I'm in no rush. We can start once you're good and caffeinated."

Dr. Varga took a sip and raised her mug in salute. "Gotta love the endless supply of coffee."

"Yeah. You guys were pretty stingy back in Thirteen."

"Oh, now. Stingy's not a very positive word. _Frugal_ was the preferred term. But here in the Capitol there's no need for so many precautions." She peered through her glasses at a notepad swarming with her tiny, unintelligible scrawl, a pen at the ready. "I hope I'm not too forward in thinking we made a little progress at our last session, pried open the clamshell just a wee bit."

At their last session, Johanna had nearly broken a chair over the woman's head. "If you say so."

"If you recall, we spent some significant time discussing various learned patterns of behavior – coping mechanisms, if you will – that over time can become a standard response to any form of anxiety or pressure, eventually becoming a kind of….negative habit."

"Yeah, I remember." She let loose a cackle. "Some of these past victors are real nutjobs."

"I was referring to you, Ms. Mason."

Johanna bolted up. "You've got to be joking. Of all the lunatics walking around this place, you think _I'm_ the one with negative habits?" She swung her legs off the couch and leaned forward, eyes glinting. As far as she was concerned, this was plate-triggering kind of talk. "Last I checked, _I'm_ not the victor who walks around half-comatose, cramming myself into ventilation ducts or closets filled with pencils."

"The Mockingjay, while certainly with her issues, has been given her own avenue of healing. You are being given another."

"The road to hell?"

"Ms. Mason, there are so, so many ways these negative patterns can manifest themselves. They don't all fit into one neat little box."

"Am I the one with permanently sharpened teeth? No. The one covering my ears like a swarm of bees are attacking, or laughing at imaginary images? No."

"Yes, that's all very, very true. But as I told you last time, the behavioral patterns associated with recovery after severe traumas are extremely varied. Some experience dissociation, others depression, and still others…." She tilted her head. "Volatile behavior? Outbursts of anger? Extreme aggression?"

Johanna was silent. One eyebrow slowly rose. "Pretty sure I was like that before the Games."

"Well." Dr. Varga laid aside the notebook and clasped her hands. "I see the shell's not quite ready to crack open just yet. Why don't we end our session early and dig in a little more next week?"

Johanna hopped off the couch. "Sounds good to me."

"And in the meantime, don't forget our three M's! Medication, meditation, and….?"

"Manslaughter?"

"Mantras! Yes! Repeat it with me: _I am safe. I am secure. And I am loved_."

Johanna gritted her teeth. "I guess two out of three isn't bad."

She slammed the door on her way out.

* * *

"Extreme aggression?" Johanna's stomping footsteps echoed down the hall. "Volatile behavior? What does she mean by _volatile behavior_?" She punctuated the words with a clean fist through her door.

A blue eye peaked through the newly minted hole. "Maybe she was talking about that?"

"Nah." Johanna snaked her arm through the gap and deftly unhooked the latch. "The door was locked and I forgot a key." She swung it open and walked inside, chin a mile high and a note of victory in her voice. "See that? _That's_ the kind of strategy that wins Hunger Games."

"Possibly. Although, and this is merely a suggestion, you could have just asked me to open it. Since we share an adjoining door. And since I was already inside."

"And miss out on a little casual vandalism? I don't think so." Her eyes narrowed. "Now. Mind telling me what you're doing in my room, Odair?"

It would be easy to say that Finnick smiled. But the walking slab of gorgeous best known as Finnick Odair didn't do _smiles_. What Finnick Odair did do was spread his well-shaped mouth across a pair of razor sharp cheekbones, then suggestively part his supple yet unquestionably manly lips to reveal a band of diamond-like teeth that glittered and dazzled beneath an exquisite, equine nose.

In Johanna's opinion, nothing should be allowed to stay so perfect, and her fists were itching to contribute a little disorder to Finnick's face. "Curiously," he said, "there is a large, fist-shaped hole right smack in the center of mine and Annie's front door."

"Really?" One shoulder lifted in a half-hearted shrug. "No idea how that got there."

"I'm sure."

"I mean, it's _possible_ someone might have been in a really bad mood on their way to therapy this morning."

"Oh, I agree. The possibilities are just endless when all your closest neighbors happen to be past victors of the Hunger Games." Another centerfold smile. "But the whos and the whens and the whys of the whole affair – that's not really what concerns me. My problem is that this little hole has put a big damper on our privacy. So, in the name of neighborliness or victor solidarity or whatever term makes you want to vomit least, I was hoping you could keep an eye or two out, make sure no one wanders by the hall and tries to disturb us since I – _we_ – might be kind of busy for the next few hours."

"Doing what?"

"I'll let you make your own inference." And it wasn't that Finnick's cheshire smile resembled the good doctor's – the two couldn't have been more different. But it held that same quality of wholesomeness, lacking in all the sharp edges and brittle lines that defined Johanna's array of smirks and laughter.

Johanna gripped the edge of the open door, widening the gap with a flash of bared teeth. "How about this: You can put a sock on your own damn door handle, and next time I won't put a hole through your face?"

"Johanna Mason: a dear friend, and as charming and obliging as ever."

"I'm not holding this door open forever."

Finnick blew her a kiss and departed without another world. It was nine am and already the second time that day. Johanna slammed the door hard enough to make the floorboards rattle.

She had just enough time to fume her way to the kitchenette and begin rifling the cupboards in search of anything breakable when two swift raps came from her door.

She cracked the door. "Finnick, I swear –" A bouquet of red roses was shoved inside and collided with her face. Somewhere between the mass of red petals and dethorned foliage she caught patches of olive toned skin, and the sound of an ego blooming:

"Knock knock, princess."

Johanna spat out a leaf. "Hawthorne – what the hell are these?"

"Flowers. For you." Gale tossed them into her arms as he squeezed through the door, breezing past her as if she were made of wallpaper and dropped without another word onto the beige sofa. Two sharp thumps sounded as he kicked up both of his booted feet onto the cluttered coffee table.

Johanna, clutching the frazzled bouquet in one hand, watched discarded food wrappers flutter to the ground through narrowed eyes. "And where did you get them? Your private garden?"

"You're welcome."

The roses were immaculate, twelve luscious buds of rich, deep crimson cut down at the prime of life. While Johanna could appreciate the sentiment of killing something for her sole amusement, the cloying floral perfume, to someone reared on the fresh, neat scent of pine, was close to noxious. It reeked of excess. It reeked of the Capitol and trying too hard.

She strolled back into her kitchenette – "Yeah, let me just put these in some..." – and dumped them in the garbage can.

Gale frowned – disappointment, but no suggestion of defeat. "Not a flower person, I take it?"

"Not a person person, really."

"But I picked red. Like blood. I thought you'd like them."

"Next time stop by the armory, not the florist. You might have more luck."

"I might just do that." He patted the space beside him with a smile. The presumption made half of Johanna want to kick his teeth in, the other half applaud his thirst for danger. She ignored the clashing urges and came around the back of the sofa, taking guarded steps toward the indicated spot, eyeing it like it might attack her.

"And if I did," he continued, "what kind of weapon would have the best chance of not getting tossed in the trash?" The soft fabric of the sofa was soundless as she sat down. Morning light streamed through the windows. No dark corners in which to hide or maneuver, a stark contrast from their date the previous night. Her room seemed too bright and quiet and empty as she fished for an answer, his body close enough to feel the heat off his skin. "An axe, right?"

 _Breathe, stupid_. " It's good in a pinch, when the options are limited."

"And when they aren't?"

"I'm a practical girl, Gale. Sure, an axe is bloody and I'd never turn down a good maiming. But the purpose of a weapon is to kill or injure. What can accomplish both those things faster or more efficiently than your basic firearm? A gun beats an axe any day."

Gale cocked his head with a thoughtful look, a step up from the usual reactions of side eyeing or outright horror Johanna usually received whenever she offered an opinion, whether on weapons, wardrobe or anything. "Guns definitely have their advantages," he replied. "But I still find that a good old fashioned bow and arrow is hard to beat." He mimed the drawing of a bowstring, the release of a single arrow. "Neat and to the point. That's why it will always be an effective weapon, and that's why Katniss was such a success. Which reminds me…" He glanced at his watch. "She's executing Snow in two hours."

A smile curled her lips. "You're right." For now, her seething anger was doused, rainbows rising from the steam. Johanna rose and walked to the door. "Let's get out of here and eat some breakfast. Executions always give me an appetite."

* * *

President Coin's droning from the balcony gave Johanna a chance to examine her surroundings. She had only one word to describe the venue: "Cozy."

"You got that right," Gale replied. The City Circle was just roomy enough for the pair of them – plus roughly five thousand extras – to squeeze shoulder to shoulder in a space meant for obnoxious garden parties and the occasional threatening speech. The air writhed with voices and breath and a bevy of odors Johanna did her best not to dwell on. The Hunger Games had inured her to many things, but people – and _a lot of people_ – were not among of them.

With some aggressive maneuvering and a few sharp elbow jabs, they managed to commandeer a front row view which, mere minutes from the main act, was standing room only. Snow himself stood bound (but unfortunately not gagged) to a steel pole a few yards away from where the Mockingjay would make her grand entrance through the mansion's gilded doorway. The condemned man watched his former subjects with a subtle look of amusement. He had turned death into a spectator sport, and seemed determined to enjoy the last one he would ever see.

Johanna gritted her teeth. "He's not even scared, the bastard."

"Of course he is. But he won't show it. He's still playing games."

"No. He's not." She scoffed. "And why should he be? One arrow? _One arrow_? If there were any justice in the world, that man would have a piece of him cut off every hour – but no. It had to be Katniss. And it had to be _her_ arrow." Her fists trembled. All of her earlier calm evaporated in the electric charge of anticipation, a lifetime of consuming anger condensed into this single, defining moment.

But it still didn't seem right or fair.

"I don't understand why she gets to do it," she said.

Gale pursed his lips. "She's the Mockingjay."

"If I had a beating heart for every time someone's given that stupid answer, the only people left watching this execution would be me, you, and that guy scratching his ass over there. Let's get our facts straight: _Katniss_ is not the only one with an axe to grind. _Katniss_ is not the only one who's lost something to Snow. She's not even the one who's lost the most."

"But she's the one who brought him down. Think about it: she rallied the districts of Panem. There wouldn't have been a revolution without her."

"There wouldn't have been a revolution without me, either. Or you. Or Peeta. Or Finnick. Or a hundred other people, doing what needed to be done. Who should get the privilege of making him bleed?" She pointed her chin at the churning crowd. "Why not one of them" Or the better question, which she kept locked inside: _Why not me?_

People were pushing against them. The mob was beginning to fray at the edges, throwing disgruntled shouts in Snow's direction, along with an array of projectiles, bottles, food. _Is that seriously a dirty diaper?_

Johanna wondered when someone would get the bright idea to start setting fires. The atmosphere was already a powder keg waiting to blow, waiting for a girl on fire to ignite them all. Katniss burst through the doors in her full Mockingjay get up and detonated the crowd, jumping and banner waving and shouts erupting on all sides.

Gale raised his voice to be heard: "What would it change? No matter who pulls the trigger, Snow's going to be dead in a few minutes."

"But it won't be enough."

"For who?"

Johanna held her tongue, a million answers resting, waiting. Her mother, for starters, who she barely remembered, felled by disease like one of District Seven's might by pines. Her kid sister – another fading memory – killed off by more of the same. But those were old classics, nothing that hadn't happened a thousand times over in every district. She'd been raised to understand that they were products made for the consumption of the Capitol, and she coped with the morbid side effects as best she could. But the one thing she had never dealt with –

Coin's pontificating died to the raging cacophony. Katniss fit an arrow into her bow.

 _Dad._

Her father, whose death precipitated it all. How many fractures in her life could she trace back to that well timed accident, the one that occurred just after she'd told Snow – "no, I will not." She'd been angry for twenty years, furious for five. Would watching the death of the man responsible for splintering her soul ease any of it away?

Johanna would never find out. Because as the string twanged and the arrow sped forward it arched over the head of President Snow and shot straight through the heart of President Coin.

 _No._

"Katniss!" she screamed. But her voice was drowned in the onslaught, an ocean of bodies and momentum that carried Johanna and Gale forward.

"Katniss!"

* * *

 _I didn't get to see him die._

The crowd swallowed Snow, gobbled him alive and spat him out a mangled mess of crushed bone and unrecognizable flesh. He died under the unrelenting press of feet and fists, decades of unleashed fury, and she didn't get to see him die.

A pair of guards dragged Katniss back indoors. Johanna untangled herself from the pulsing riot and made a beeline for the mansion's doors, Gale fast behind. "Johanna, wait! They won't let you – !" She pushed aside the bodies blocking the entrance, crashed through anyone else who dared lay a hand of restraint. She moved as a tornado whipping down the halls, leaving swollen lips and several broken noses in her wake.

Haymitch barricaded the door to the Presidential Office. "Give it a rest, Mason." He was sober, disheveled, looking uglier than she had ever known him.

"Move it, Haymitch."

"No one's seeing her. No one's saying anything and no one's seeing her." He looked her up and down, his upper lip curling. "Especially not you."

"I'm going to see her!"

"You don't get it, do you? This isn't about you, it's about Katniss. That crazy girl is on lockdown until we can ship her out of the Capitol. District Thirteen is frothing at the mouth, demanding her head. We're doing everything we can to get her pardoned, and that means _no one_ goes in."

Her nostrils flared as she grabbed his shirt front, pulled his chest towards hers till they were nose to nose and she spewed angry breath into his face, her voice a low growl. "Katniss has done everything you asked of her, and so have I. I'm done taking your orders. I'm done taking District Thirteen's orders. I'm done taking _anyone's_ orders and I'm going to start making some of my own! And the first one will be to permanently remove that ugly head of yours unless you move over and _let me in_."

She pushed him away. Haymitch staggered backwards, venom in his eyes. After a pause he said, "Five minutes."

She barreled inside. "Katniss, you –!" She stopped cold. The Mockingjay sat hunched in a corner, eyes boring into her lap. No longer the soaring savior of Panem, her wings were clipped and she was crashing back to earth. _If we burn you burn with us._ And the girl on fire was going up in flames.

Katniss raised her face. Her eyes settled on Joahnna and flickered with a shred of recognition. "What are you doing here, Johanna?"

Her fury resurfaced. _Why shouldn't I be here?_ Why shouldn't she take five long steps forward, cock her fist, and send Katniss flying to the floor as she screamed, "You idiot! You selfish bitch. How could you?" A muffled voice behind her, Gale yelling for her to _Stop! What are you doing?_ The pull of his arms around her waist as every limb thrashed for freedom and revenge.

"He was supposed to die! How could you let him live?"

Blood dripped from a corner of Katniss' mouth. "He did die."

"He was supposed to die by _your_ hand. You were given that right, and you threw it away!"

She sounded emptied, voice desiccated when she replied, "Would you have done any different?"

"Yeah. I would have." Johanna threw Gale off and closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She opened them hoping to face an enemy, but instead found only a tired girl with a pair of resigned eyes. Katniss was prepared to die for taking out the next dictator of Panem, and Johanna hated Haymitch for letting her in, hated Gale for holding her back. "I would have killed that son of bitch!"

But most of all she hated Katniss, for giving up the last of what was hers – for giving up everything she wanted and everything she deserved – in order to do what needed to be done. And that's why –

 _She's the Mockingjay._

And that's why Johanna wasn't. And why she never would be.

Johanna didn't notice the tears till they were falling down her chin, the familiar _drip drip_ trailing down her neck and into the well of her chest. "Katniss." Suddenly Snow and his death and her unquenchable anger didn't seem important. "What's going to happen to you?" She wiped her eyes. "They won't –"

"Maybe. I don't know." Katniss still lay sprawled on the floor. "They think they can send me back to Twelve as part of a plea deal. Me and Prim and my mom."

"Is that what you want?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything. I never have." She was shaking all over as she pulled herself upright and hugged her knees, eyes tightly shut, lips moving soundlessly, as if repeating one of the mantras Dr. Varga tried incessantly to shove down Johanna's throat. _Different avenues of healing_. Whatever Katniss was doing, it seemed to work. She opened her eyes and said, "I'm tired. I want to go home."

Haymitch stood at the door. "Times up, Mason." She didn't think his smile would be so smug if he hadn't brought along a pair of armed guards. One of them trained the muzzle to her skull, and Johanna had a small urge to give him a reason.

Instead she let Gale lead her away, his hand at the small of her back.

Katniss' farewell came just as the door slammed. "I hope one day you find what you need."

Johanna broke. It was the last straw, for Katniss to think of Johanna – of someone else – to the last. "Get out of here, Gale. Leave me alone."

He didn't budge. She studied his face, tried to gauge how the ordeal had affected him. But there was no visible pain or sorrow. His emotions were on lockdown, safely hidden. He was just like Katniss in that way. He examined her with that analytical look, that hunter's look that made her feel naked. "You're in no shape to be alone," he said.

Johanna smiled. She smothered a laugh into her hands. "You think you've seen me at my worst?" Her smile sank. "You don't know anything about me, or what I'm capable of. What I've survived without you or anyone else."

"At least let me take you back to your room."

She slapped away his outstretched hand. "No." She stole a final look towards the door that held Katniss prisoner, and fled down the hall.

* * *

The engineers who'd first conceived of the Capitol, given birth to its spyres and anti-aircraft defense systems, had chosen its location well. Nestled in the heart of a massive mountain range, its bulwarks were formed of solid ore and the city had sat, unbreached and undisturbed, for over a century, a festering metal wound in the midst of a thriving natural world.

Dappled sunlight showered Johanna's face as she turned it upwards. It felt good to get out from under the tangle of cement and steel, half-standing buildings bleeding glass and plaster. Through the filter of the forest canopy spindle-like clouds wove through the sky. Early morning fog kissed her skin as it crept through the branches.

She dug a hand into the brown satchel hanging at her side.

"Goodbye brainless." A little cloth bundle, tied with a bit of twine and filled with pine needles, lay in her palm. It seemed like an age since Katniss had given it to her, and these days it wasn't her only possession. A closet full of pilfered clothes and some shoes that didn't quite fit but were too fabulous to pass up could attest to that. But it was still the only thing she owned that was given rather than taken, and she had wandered into the forest that sheathed the Capitol so she might return the gift to its rightful home. "Good luck back in your wasteland." It felt only right when Katniss herself had been returned to her home. The Mockingjay was somewhere in the ruins of District Twelve, rebuilding, making sand castles out of the ashes of her old life.

She chucked the bundle into the air and watched it arc out of sight.

"I hope you find what you need. Or maybe just wake up for once and take a big whiff of that tasty loaf of bread that never leaves your side." She smiled broadly, without malice, without conceit. A secret wish carried on the wind. "Maybe one day I'll call you friend."

It was the best she could offer, for someone who never had the luxury to label anyone but enemy.

She retraced her path up the trail and crested a rise. The city loomed into view. With her last souvenir of Katniss gone, the constriction in her chest had loosened. The whole process seemed a bit like hacking up some stubborn phlegm, but Johanna had to admit that maybe some of Dr. Varga's harebrained ideas weren't so nauseatingly stupid.

" _You and Katniss bonded at a critical juncture in your life,"_ the doctor had said two days prior, her office in shambles after what she classified in her notes as "another classic Mason rampage." _"Your imprisonment by the Capitol made you vulnerable,"_ she had continued. _"The restrictions put on you by District Thirteen in participating in the invasion robbed you of any personal closure. Katniss, your training partner, therefore became your medium, your means of vindication. Her success became your success, and when she failed to kill Snow, it also became your failure."_

" _So what do you want me to do? Hunt her down and force her to kill people until I feel better?"_

" _Not….exactly. It's time to let go of Katniss, of the Mockingjay and everything she represents in your life. I think what you need is catharsis."_

" _Sounds like a disease."_

" _It's an act of symbolism that serves to release strong or repressed emotions."_

" _Still sounds like a disease. Of the venereal kind."_

Speaking of which:

"Hawthorne." She had just broached the outer city limits when she found him sitting casually on the stump of some obliterated statue, strong hands grasping the curve of a sleek bow, a quiver slung across his back. She'd been dodging his calls, avoiding him wherever possible, and after the long separation his placid smile, so near at hand, spiked her heart rate. "What are you doing here?"

"I took your advice."

Her eyes narrowed. "What advice?"

"I stopped by the armory this time." He stooped to lift something from the ground.

"What's that?" Johanna asked.

Gale held out a second bow. "It's our second date."

* * *

"Here we are."

Gale had set up a makeshift range on the outskirts of the city. It lay not far from where he had accosted her and consisted mostly of moldering wood piles and half-burnt sofas. And if that weren't classy enough, he'd gone the extra mile and pinned up a few practice targets, shorn-off paintings of former presidents of Panem that once hung proudly in the gallery of the palace, the centerpiece of the whole arrangement a full portrait of Snow, lightly spattered in blood.

There was no way around it: she was impressed. "Not too shabby," she said.

"Admit it: It's masterful."

"The only thing masterful in this dump is this _craftsmanship_." Her wide eyes drank in every crevice of the bow in her hands. It was heavier than she would have guessed. However slight and delicate it appeared whenever Katniss hoisted it over her head, rousing the masses as she garbled on about _flames!_ and _unity!_ – holding one for herself she could sympathize with the temptation to speechify, raw potential coursing down her arms and to every corner of her soul.

Gale eyed her eyeing the bow. "Gorgeous, isn't she? Who knew something so beautiful could be so deadly?"

Johanna twanged the string. "Did you get that line out of a book, or were you just born that obvious?"

He sidestepped the jab and plucked an arrow from his quiver. "I'm surprised you never learned to use one of these. All those forests out in District Seven." He fitted the arrow into his bowstring, pulled back, and let it fly.

It smacked dead center between Snow's eyes.

Johanna raised an eyebrow. She was starting to get annoyed at how often he was impressing her today. "No one in District Seven hunted."

"I find that hard to believe. There must have been wildlife everywhere."

"You forget that we worked in the forest. We had peacekeepers crawling all over the woods. You couldn't so much as pick up a stray twig without someone busting out the whips." She recalled how their white armor stood out like a blight amidst the browns and greens, the chill of their gaze as she hacked and hacked away. Sometimes she felt bad for the trees. But it was kill or be killed, and those formative lessons had served her well through the years. "The forest wasn't a haven for us. It was a cage."

"A cage? Try working underground in a derelict mine eleven hours a day."

"I never said it was a bad cage." She pulled an arrow out of his quiver and tested the metal tip against her finger, where a bead of crimson formed. She watched it blossom for a moment, then sucked it away. "Are we going to do this, or just keep arguing about whose District had the worst scourgings?"

He crossed his arms. "You might remember that I was actually scourged once."

"I do. I've seen the footage. And trust me, Hawthorne, I've seen far worse." She laughed. "I've _done_ far worse."

"Fine. Let's not waste any more time." He started in with the basics. "Look down the range. Now imagine a line running straight down the center of where you're aiming. That's your shooting line." He taught her the correct stance, left leg forward, feet squared, hips tucked. "Now move your chin over your shoulder – good, good, that's it. You're ready to start."

Johanna notched an arrow. Her first shot fell short and clattered on a heap of rubble. "Your point of aim is too close," Gale said. He tilted her arrow upwards. "Try resting the tip farther down the range." Her second shot landed closer, and on her third she clipped the target. Gale continued to adjust her aim and after an hour one of her arrows sped straight into the heart of President Snow.

"Face it," she said, smirk firmly in place. "I'm a natural."

"Was there ever any doubt?"

"I'm starting to think long distance killing could have its uses." She sent another arrow down the range. This one landed in Snow's groin. "Especially where my therapist is concerned."

"What'd she do this time?"

"The usual. She says that I have outbursts of anger."

"Well…"

"If you say she's got a point, I swear….."

"You'll what?" He snatched the bow out of her hands. "Murder me? Beat me to a pulp? Perform various acts of intense aggression?

Empty handed, she was forced to conjure the only weapon she could, and balled her fists. "So I have an aggressive streak," she forced through clenched teeth. "All it means is that I'm willing to fight for what I want, that I'm a survivor."

"Great. Wonderful. But if you really have no problem with it, why get so defensive?"

 _I liked him better when he was scared of me._ She had a mind to put the fear of her back in him. But he had an infuriating ability to couch every inquiry as a personal challenge, his strong jaw jutted ever slightly out, that begged for a final word from her. "I'm _defensive_ because she had the nerve to call it a negative habit."

"And what would you call it?"

She pondered for a moment, smiled and said, "A necessary habit."

Gale stared at the sky, then set about collecting their things. "It's getting late. We should head back and grab some food." He strapped the bows to his back and held out his hand.

She stared at it like a rattler ready to strike. "Exactly what do you expect me to do with that?"

"I'd settle for holding it."

"I'd settle for –" The retort was packaged and ready to go, something about an amputation free of charge. But the orange glow of the low hanging sun did wonders to his face and stole the words right off her tongue. Before she could talk herself out of it, she snapped her hand out and twined her fingers with his. "Just get going before I change my mind."

The city lay in crumbles. Their hands swayed gently between them as they walked, fresh wind parsing her crop of hair that grew longer and wilder with each passing day.

For the first time in awhile, she filled her lungs with air and felt glad she was alive. Glad to be a survivor.

"You know I'm right," she said softly. "And don't tell me you're not still as angry as me."

"Of course I'm angry. I'll always be angry. But The Capitol's destroyed. The war is over. We're done surviving. Maybe it's not so necessary anymore. Maybe it's time to let some of it go."

"Is that what you're doing?

"It's what I'm trying to do." He smiled then. A good, solid, dependable looking smile, if a little broken around the edges. _Probably still pining away for Katniss_.

"If that's the case, you should have gone back with Katniss. Bread boy and that idiot Haymitch hitched a ride back there. And correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure that's where your whole family lives."

"They do." He swallowed. "But Twelve's not the same as it used to be. It doesn't feel like home anymore, not to me." His eyes sheened in the cool twilight. He fastened them to the darkening horizon and she recalled he'd once watched his entire District burn to ash before his eyes.

She stopped and dropped his hand. "I don't get it." The wind picked up and she hugged herself. "You nearly died saving that rock pile."

"I nearly died saving the people in it. And most of the survivors have scattered. I'm not interested in trying to get back what's gone forever. I'd rather spend my life making something new." He held out his hand again.

She turned away. "Don't."

"What?"

She was silent. She gazed upwards, tried to explain the void inside to the emerging stars, formulate it into something tangible enough to share with words. "Katniss let Snow live. I could never do that. I'd let the whole world burn before I did that. I could never be that good."

"And you think I am?"

"That's not the point."

"Isn't it, though? What do you believe? That you're not good enough? Not good enough for – what, exactly? Happiness? Love?"

She shook her head. "Do you know how hard I tried to hate her?"

"Makes sense. We all hate our weaknesses."

"But she's just –" Her hands squeezed the air. "She's impossible to hate! No matter what I did, she was there. And she became my friend." _Friend_. Johanna wasn't ignorant of the value of that word. She had few to speak of, even less who she would call good. "The point is that now she's gone, and all that goodness and friendship is gone, it makes me realize how little I have of both."

"Hey." He took her by the elbow and guided her back around. Face to face he said, "You've got me. And maybe, if we try really, really hard to stay on our very best behavior, we can scrape out enough goodness between us to make maybe, like half a Katniss."

She smiled slowly. His face mirrored hers, and drew closer, closer than she ever intended himto be, though she couldn't call the warmth that radiated from his chest and arms unwanted, nor did she shy away from his hot breath as the gap between them inched to a close.

"What do you say, Jojobean?" he whispered.

She leaned back. "What did you just call me?"

His face cracked. "It's a nickname." He rubbed the back of his head, a sheepish grin on his face that was difficult to pin down, though _virginal_ sprung to her mind, and a reminder that he was all of nineteen years old and had spent the best years of his reckless youth down the shaft of a coal mine _._ "It's a thing I do, I give people nicknames, usually food related. I mean, I've got a _lot_ of little brothers and sisters, so –"

That was when she kissed him. Warm, sweet, surprisingly satisfying despite the slight sloppiness. It wasn't the first pair of lips she had ever kissed, but a little thrill in her chest told her she might not mind it being the last.

When they pulled apart he looked a little baffled, and a lot like she had just decked him.

Johanna smiled. "Call me that again, Hawthorne, and you will not live to tell the tale." Then they dove in for another.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading. Feedback welcome :)_


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